Superstitious? Me? Not a bit. Black cats hold no terrors and I’d happily walk under any number of ladders. Thirteen of them, if you like.

But when I interviewed a psychiatrist a while ago, it was the perfect opportunity to throw in a personal question about behaviour some might call obsessive-compulsive.

I’m a knocker on wood. To a degree that sometimes even strikes me as unreasonable. I’ve seriously thought of carrying a tiny piece of lumber in my pocket for instant use.

There isn’t a tree in my neighbourhood without indentations from the repeated impact of my callused knuckles as I walk by. Not that I knock on every tree every time. But this has been going on for a long time and they’ve all borne the brunt of my passing.

If I feel the urge and there’s not a tree within easy reach, I’ll knock on someone’s hedge.

In fact, I’ve rationalized it to the point where, when there’s no alternative, I’ll knock on paper (wood pulp), my head (irony) or even plastic that’s been textured to look like wood. Or, if I’m really under the gun, simply saying “knock wood” is enough.

Knocking still counts if I’m wearing gloves or if there’s a tablecloth between my hand and whatever lies beneath. I can talk myself into anything. . .

Every time I try to talk myself out of it, I think, “Why tempt fate?” And knock on wood/hedge/paper/head/plastic twice, just to be on the safe side.

There is, I’ve learned, a technical term for this: Apotropaic magic, aimed at making the evil eye look in someone else’s direction. It’s why people wear good-luck charms or cross their fingers. (I used to do that but I grew out of it.)

Knocking on wood is very much a cross-cultural thing: People do it all over Europe.

Some ancient beliefs held that when you tapped on a tree, you were alerting the wood nymph that lived there to your needs.

This actually would make me think twice. What if the nymph was asleep or in the loo? I really don’t want to get the little people ticked off at me.

That’s why I’m always very careful in the middle of the night. My bladder rouses me around 3 a.m. and when I’ve attended to its needs and gone back to bed, I tend to lie there for a while pondering — as one does at my age — the approaching onset of that sleep from which there is no bathroom break.

And then I reach behind me and knock delicately on the headboard. Because to wake my wife with either noise or vibration would be very bad luck indeed.

My mother was a great knocker on wood. But she also always threw spilled salt over her shoulder, never quite sure whether it should be left hand over right shoulder or vice versa. Doing it wrong struck me as risky, so I never got into that.

Anyway, I casually dropped the question into my chat with the psychiatrist, who wasn’t taken in for a moment. He knew who I was talking about. Possibly because I’d stretched out on his couch.

“We’ve all got our quirks,” he said. “It helps you get through the day? Then keep it up. Forcing yourself to stop would do more harm than good.”

I was so relieved, you know what I did as soon as I was outside? Right. Walked under a ladder.

More on thestar.com

We value respectful and thoughtful discussion. Readers are encouraged to flag comments that fail to meet the standards outlined in our
Community Code of Conduct.
For further information, including our legal guidelines, please see our full website
Terms and Conditions.